by Delle Jacobs
"Don't know," said Egil. "They went off to fell timbers in the far hills, and a few trees are down. We found their axes. But they seem to have wandered off. No signs of violence."
Another one of the women's pranks, or so he hoped.
"This could be serious, Ronan," said Egil.
"Could be. But I doubt it. Their tricks have been getting worse, it's true. But I don't think they'll do anything truly harmful, or Tanni would have been pushed into the pit, not tricked there. No real damage has been done. And they could have, if they'd wanted to."
Egil chuckled, and an amused twinkle shone in his eyes. "In an odd sort of way, there's a kind of trust in all this, Ronan. As if the women believe they'll be safe, no matter what they do."
Ronan raised his eyebrows. It was a thought worth considering. "Or maybe they mean for us to prove we can be trusted. Surely they would not pull such stunts if they expected to be slaughtered for them. I wonder if they recognize that."
"There's another possibility. They are Celts, after all."
"Hmm. You mean, they'll fight back, even without weapons, even if it means their death. Aye, I thought of that. But these pranks, they're a nuisance, but they're also funny, in a way."
Egil snickered. "Tanni didn't think so."
Ronan grinned. "Aye, but everyone else did. What about all of your hoes standing upright in the mud of the stream? Meant to make you feel foolish, I'll wager."
"True." Egil chuckled again. "Nothing broken, or harmed."
The anvil had been found by an ash tree in the forest. The tongs were close by, half buried by leaves. Of Olav's axe, nothing more had been seen.
But now the men themselves had disappeared.
Misgivings were beginning to flourish.
Then the old wooden door to Ronan's cottage burst open. Olav straggled in, followed by his men, clothing snagged and bare skin scratched, their faces set with tight-set jaws and frowns.
"What happened to you?" Ronan asked.
"Got lost," grumbled Olav. He seized the horn of ale handed to him and downed it as if he had had none in a sennight.
"Lost?" Oh, this was ripe for merriment. The other men gathered around Ronan, their eyebrows rising with increasing interest. "But you were not so far away that you could get lost. Did you forget which way the sun sets?"
"We uh, decided to explore a bit."
"Ask them what they were exploring," Tanni suggested with a sly grin.
"Or maybe who," said Bjorn. "Which little witch has got your eye, Olav?"
Olav's face reddened, and tried to object, over the roar of laughter. It would do him no good. Tanni's mishap had been easily unearthed by Olav, so he was not about to let Olav go unscathed.
"Told you," Bjorn said. "You don't take control, the women will run you."
"I suppose you'll do better."
"Aye. I'll have no women in my life. Nothing but trouble."
Bjorn emptied another horn of mead. His cheeks were flushing from indulgence. But there was none of the laughter of camaraderie in his voice, only an odd bitterness.
Ronan decided to probe. "Why did you come with us then, Bjorn?"
"Just wanted some peace. You said nothing about women, just a chance to make new lives. That's all I want, to work my forge and be left alone. You can keep all the women, for all I care. Do what you want, but I won't let a woman make a fool of me."
Bjorn raised even more jeers than Olav had. Bjorn ignored them and ladled himself more mead.
"But he's right, Ronan," said Egil, settling down from a hearty laugh. "The imps. We've got to get a handle on this, or they'll just get worse."
"Aye, I know. They’re as mischievous as Loki himself, as if Loki gave birth to the whole lot of them. But they're not like Hel. This time Loki made his daughters beautiful instead of ugly, to add to the torment. We'll have to outwit them."
"How?"
Ronan almost laughed aloud as inspiration struck. "Gather all the sacks you can find, big, sturdy ones. And cord."
"Why? What do you have in mind?"
"You'll see."
After the last torch was damped, Ronan's men hid in their cottages. When darkness was almost total, they gathered their materials and set the watch.
Ronan hardly slept for the waiting. Long after he'd taken his turn at the watch, then crawled into bed fully dressed, he was still awake when Olav tapped his shoulder. He sprung to his feet. With the waxing moon hidden behind the clouds, the Northmen filed out of the cottage and lurked at its corners.
Ronan spotted his own special quarry among the shadowy figures prowling cautiously up to the cottages, at the head of the furtive gang. Whatever her scheme, this time he had her.
At his signal, the men dashed forth, whooping great war cries like berserkers, and leaped upon the creeping women. Loud shrieks and squeals erupted as men stuffed flailing women into heavy woven bags and tied the bags shut.
Tightly securing his squirming victim in his sack, he hoisted her over his shoulder and strode up the slope. Fists pounded through the cloth on his back, accompanied by shrieks as Ronan swatted her rump.
"Ouch! Don't you dare! Put me down!"
All in good time, my sweet. As Egil caught up to him along the path, Ronan slowed and they walked silently apace to the door.
Egil banged his fist on the door. "Open the door, Liam."
"My mama said no," the boy called from inside.
Egil laughed. "Open it."
"I can't. Mama said!"
"Open the door, Liam," grumbled out Birgit's voice from inside Egil's sack.
"Come on, Liam, let me do it," said a young girl’s voice.
Ronan roared out his laugh as the door gaped open, with Liam and an astonished young girl standing aside. Bursting in, he tossed the wriggling sack down onto Arienh’s bed and gave a parting swat to her rear. Egil plopped Birgit down just as unceremoniously. Leaving both women still incarcerated in their sacks, the brothers headed for the door.
"Try to keep your mother out of trouble, Liam," Egil said.
"And your aunt," Ronan added. "Since you seem to be the only one with any sense around here."
Down the path, several other men joined them, laughing, clapping each other's shoulders.
"Ah, you were right, Ronan," said Tanni. "That was fun."
But it had been too easy. Ronan frowned. "Don't get cocky. We haven't won the war yet."
Wild shouts echoed up the valley. Ronan strained his eyes against the darkness. More women?
Clouds parted and the waxing moon shed its puny light on the longship as it slid from its berth into the stream.
"The Black Swan!"
Ronan broke into a run. Egil sped beside him.
Ahead of them, shouting men leapt into the stream, splashing after the ship as it caught the current and turned toward the estuary, gliding smoothly away.
His ship. All the years of effort. Perfectly fitted clinkered planks, the lovely, graceful swan's head bow he had painstakingly carved, all disappearing before his eyes.
Not his ship!
Ronan ran faster down the narrow trail than he'd ever run before, faster than either the Black Swan or the swimmers in the widening stream.
"Come on," he yelled to Egil, who sped along with him, racing apace with the boat and swimmers.
Bjorn cut in behind them. "Damn women!"
"The women?" Ronan asked between hurried breaths.
"Thor's beard, aye, it was the women. What do you think, Loki himself cut the damn thing loose?"
They had to make the estuary before the ship, or they'd never catch it. Dashing past the Black Swan, they rushed on. Bjorn turned and made for the river bank.
"Not here," Ronan shouted. "Get ahead of it, and let it catch up with us."
"You mean swim after it?" Bjorn asked, slowing.
"Got a better idea? Come on."
"Can't swim," Bjorn said, slowing more.
"Hel's tits," sputtered Egil. "Go for a rowboat. You're no use here."
At the stream's
mouth, where it joined the estuary, Ronan dove into the river, Egil after him. With choppy strokes, they cut through the rippling water. The ship drifted toward them.
"Go to larboard and catch her as she drifts past," he shouted to Egil. They split apart, one for each side, treading in the water, waiting for the ship to glide up to them.
Ronan felt the ship rocking as Egil grasped the larboard side, and he lunged and grabbed the starboard side to maintain the balance. He threw his body aboard, landing roughly on the planked deck. With a huge sigh of relief, he lay for a moment on his back, feeling the change of the water as the Black Swan caught the river's current in the estuary and slowly pivoted toward the sea.
"A small problem," said Egil, who sat up on the deck, still breathing hard.
"What? All we've got to do is row back."
"No oars."
Perhaps he should resign himself to his fate. The gods had joined forces with a small band of Celtic women and were determined to thwart his dreams.
Nay. Not as long as he drew breath would he let a bunch of women defeat him. He leaped to his feet.
"The deck. Rip a plank off the deck."
"Aye." Egil leapt to the task, as the graceful ship glided in the current. Iron nails and wooden pegs squealed like mice as they pried and ripped up two long boards.
Ronan grabbed one and dashed to larboard, while Egil took starboard. They dipped their planks into the water, paddling the way an Irish Celt paddled a round coracle. The Black Swan slowed in her wayward journey toward the sea, but they made almost no progress against the current. And if both of them had to paddle against the current, who would steer? Despite its keel, the Black Swan was unbelievably awkward when used as a giant canoe.
"Try to head for shore. Any shore."
"Good idea. If we can move at all." Egil cocked his head toward the stream mouth. "Look. Help's coming."
Ahead of them, two small boats entered the estuary from the stream, Bjorn and Olav, and other men, rowing hard. The small boats bristled like hedgehogs.
The oars.
The little vessels pulled alongside. Men jumped aboard. Egil sighed as hard as Ronan.
"Thought you could use these," Olav said, as blandly as if he were loaning a knife, and passed the oars aboard. "At least, the imps didn't get a chance to hide them, too."
Ronan glared. There wasn't an awful lot left of his sense of humor. He barely spoke as he directed the replacement of the oars and joined the men in rowing back upstream to the Black Swan's berth.
"Loki's Daughters," he grumbled. Ronan jumped down into the water and used the last of his strength to help shoulder the longship onto the bank. It could not have been an easy task for a few women to have shoved her out into the flowing water. Particularly when most of them were being carted back to their homes in sacks. They had to have planned it carefully, and worse, figured out what the men were going to do.
"What's that?" Egil asked, looking about as exhausted as Ronan felt.
"Loki's birthed a whole tribe of women, solely for the purpose of driving us crazy."
***
The women gathered around Arienh's cottage hearth gabbed excitedly as she stirred the coals and added an extra faggot to ward off the early evening chill. She joined their laughter. But it worried her. They were having entirely too much fun.
"It was funny," Mildread said. "I wish you could have seen it."
"Took too long to get out of the sack," Arienh replied. For some reason, everyone thought that was funny.
Selma sighed, perhaps wistful, perhaps satisfied. "But how did you know they'd come looking for us? How could they have known we'd be there?"
"They probably didn't," said Arienh. "But we became very predictable. We've done something every night, after all. Wouldn't you think they'd figure that out?"
Birgit sniffed. "First time I go with you, and look what happens. Why do you have all the fun?"
Arienh laughed. "I thought you did rather well," she said. "Of course, I didn't think they would sack us."
"As long as I had your skirt to hang on to, I did all right. But then, when that sack came down over my head, I thought I'd lost my sight entirely."
Selma joined Elli in a fit of giggles.
"Never mind, Birgit," replied Elli, when she finished laughing. "I'm sure we can find something more to amuse you."
Birgit’s eyes sparkled with pale green devilment. "Actually, I did overhear something yesterday."
All heads turned in Birgit's direction, surprised. Mischief was not a usual part of Birgit's solemn disposition.
"They're looking for a place to bathe. Where the water is clear. Away from us."
"Oh?" sang the chorus.
"The Bride's Well," Birgit announced triumphantly.
"Good choice," Arienh agreed. "Meets all their requirements. Of course, the water's cold, coming off the falls, but they probably don't care."
"They're Northmen," Elli said with scorn. "They're used to the cold. Imagine how much could disappear while they're gone."
Birgit shook her head."Nay, they're onto that. They'll have a guard. The picking would be better right under their noses."
"Hmm." Mildread stood, rubbing her hands together. "I wonder if it's true, what they say about the Northmen's organs."
"I'll wager they're no bigger than any other man's," Elli said.
Arienh didn't like the turn of things. She'd have to proceed cautiously if she didn't want to lose control.
"Oh, I don't know, Mildread," Elli countered. "From what I've seen so far, they're of a fair size."
Mildread laughed. "And I think their breeches are stuffed."
Arienh knew better. She'd already had a good look. But this was taking a dangerous turn. And it wasn't a good time to try to issue orders. Every day, it seemed, the women listened to her less. She tried a less direct approach. "That’s not what you said before."
Mildread sneered. "A week's washing says they're stuffed." "Can it really be worth that much to you?"she asked.
Birgit's green eyes took on an evil gleam. Her smile had faded away. "Can it matter? They say cold shrinks things. And they'll be cold enough when we're finished with them."
Selma stood, clasping hands together and grinning. "It would be worth that much just to watch them walking back without their clothes."
Arienh was aghast. "You cannot mean it."
"Done, then," said Mildread, matching Selma for wicked glee.
"And this time," said Birgit with a cunning smile, "you will watch the children, Mildread. I am going."
"You think so? I wouldn't miss this for a year's baked bread."
Arienh folded her arms. "Have none of you any sense? These are Vikings we're dealing with."
As if she had said nothing, Mildread turned back to Elli, Selma, and Birgit. "All right then, when we take their clothes, what'll we do with them?"
"Hang them up," said Birgit with a very sweet smile.
Arienh groaned. Even Birgit? What was the matter with them?
One by one, the women left the cottage, each peering around the door frame to check for Vikings. Arienh huffed to herself. If the men hadn't suspected their adversaries were up to something before, they certainly would know now. They were blockheads, all of them. But she might as well join them. How else could she avert disaster?
The bleating of the lambs drew Arienh to the door. Stepping out into the twilight, she saw the mixed flock of Celtic sheep and the ones the Vikings called black-faces coming down from the upper valley.
Furtively, she scanned about, seeking out the Viking who was her bane. She found him quickly, near the ash grove, bare-backed even in the chilly air, with a sheen of sweat over lightly golden skin. He gave one more healthy swing of his adze at the beam he was shaping, and straightened, looking straight at her as if he had known she was watching him. She snapped her head around to concentrate on the incoming flock, but she knew he wasn’t fooled.
She watched in fascination as the little black and white dogs
culled out the white-faced Celtic sheep from the flock and, following the sharp whistles of their herder, sent the ewes and their lambs scurrying for her paddock.
Without a word, she threw a glare at the shepherd, whose name was Tanni. Well, at least they had returned the sheep as he had said. But that didn’t mean much. She closed the gate and began examining hooves and checking lambs for cuts and wounds.
Arienh didn’t like Birgit’s plot. In fact, she didn’t like the way anything was going. The women were having entirely too much fun, and that was not the aim, at all.
She herself had stolen the hoes from the shed and hidden them in the forest, only to find them standing heads up in the stream the next day. And every time she looked at Selma, the girl quickly looked away.
She had the sinking feeling she was losing control.
It would be funny, she had to admit, to see those grown men having to run about without their clothes. She had thought it a much better idea to get rid of the clothes entirely, or at least dump them into the pit where they had hidden the food they had stolen, but everyone else liked Birgit’s plan better.
The truth was, she was as cowardly as the rest of them, unwilling to provoke the Vikings' outrage completely. But if they did nothing, they would be stuck with these men forever. And that one in particular, who had vowed to make her his wife.
"I told you they would come back."
The very air sizzled with his words, like the wild sea spray from heavy waves against the sea cliffs.
She made no answer. She hated him. Hated the way he commanded her attention. It was as if she couldn’t help searching him out, the moment she stepped outside her cottage. And he always seemed to be there. Even now, she could not stop her eyes from seeking him out.
Of its own volition, her gaze skimmed over him in a way that brought heat to her face, studying the sheen of perspiration that collected in rivulets and gathered the sprinkling of dark hairs into a waving trek down the center of his chest. She knew where the trail led as it narrowed to a line that broke, then picked up again, to gather around the organ of which he was clearly so proud. It seemed to be in its usual state, she noticed. Some unruly thought in her kept wishing she had touched it when she had had the chance, just to see if it felt anything like what it looked. She gritted her teeth, willing the errant thought away, the way she chased away all thoughts of wanting to touch him. Then her gaze flitted to the scar, ugly and still dark. The stitches were gone. She winced, recalling his pain.